


untitled

by buu



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: M/M, spoilers for end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buu/pseuds/buu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorey does not remember the first time he and Mikleo hold hands.</p><p>I FORGOT TO TAG THIS HAS SPOILERS PLEASE DON'T READ</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> this is real bad and i'm sorry god i don't write anymore

Most of Sorey's early memories are a blur of color, warmth, scraped knees and laughter. There are just so many things there, so many good days, bad days, in between days that he can't be responsible for keeping track of all of them. He hears Jiji talk about how the longer you live, the more the lines of memory fade, the more things get pushed aside so you can make new ones. 

There are a few that stand out, of course—a birthday with Mikleo handing him a meticulously-scribbled crayon map of the ruins by their home, the first time they'd managed to get into the thick stone door and hadn't been able to get back out, the day they'd sprained the same ankle simultaneously and Jiji had laughed rather than get angry like they'd been afraid of. Sorey doesn't know how people's brains decide to latch onto certain memories and not others, but he has nothing to complain about; most of his are good ones.

Sorey does not remember the first time he and Mikleo hold hands.

That doesn't mean it's not an important memory; it just means that it's always been there, a constant. There must have been a first time, of course—people aren't born holding hands like Jiji and the others sometimes joke, when Mikleo flushes and yanks away only for his fingers to come creeping back a few minutes later without really thinking. Sorey never mentions it, just lets the corners of his mouth twitch upwards while he pretends to be focused on something else. Most of his memories involve Mikleo, and in turn, most of those involve them holding hands. Sorey grows up never learning that holding onto your best friend's hand isn't exactly normal. It's just something they do, like the way Mikleo tosses his hair out of his face when he's talking, or the way Sorey always messes up the buttons on his shirt the first time around.

There are a lot of memories that include holding hands; the first time Mikleo gets sick, when Sorey sits by his bed and he's not sure which one of them is the one refusing to let go. Huddling together in Sorey's bed—it's always been too big for one person, he thinks—pretending neither of them are scared of the ghost story Jiji has told them before bed. Mikleo gripping Sorey's hand a little too-tight after a near-fall in the ruins, harsh words contrasting with the soft of his fingers. But there is no first memory. Sorey just knows this is how it's always been.

Sorey does remember the first time he thinks about it, holding hands. Like the others, it's a good memory, flat on his back in the sun, sprawled on one of the smooth-hewn rocks scattered around the field by the ruins they've clambered up and down more times than they can count. Mikleo is next to him, as always, leafing through a book they've already read countless times before. He makes noises sometimes, breathy 'hm's, even though Sorey's pretty sure Mikleo must know that book cover to cover. It's funny, but not funny enough for Sorey to point out and ruin the silence with Mikleo's heated protests. Not yet, anyway.

The grass is tickling the back of Sorey's neck when he turns his head to watch the way Mikleo turns the pages with fingers that are slightly more slender than his own, the way the sun sprinkles over his shoulders, filtered through the leaves. Mikleo always burns easily.

Sorey lets his arm drop to the side, back of his hand pressing down the grass beneath it, wiggling his fingers. Mikleo's eyes don't even leave the page as he moves his own hand, slapping the palm flat against Sorey's a little too forcefully. Sorey winces, nearly opens his mouth to protest at this rough, unfair treatment, but then Mikleo's fingers are sliding through the spaces between Sorey's, absently finding the place that feels like second nature to both of them. Sorey thinks about the contrast between their skin, the way Mikleo's fingers twitch when he reads over something interesting, and suddenly the fact that they're holding hands works its way from Sorey's subconscious to the front of his mind, and he's hyper aware of the flex of Mikleo's palm, the weight of it pressed against his own. It's not a bad realization; it's just a realization: 'we are holding hands' and 'I like it'.

He tries mentioning it to Mikleo, who gives him a look, squeezes his hand too hard until Sorey yells 'I give', and tells him not to ruin the atmosphere by stating the obvious.

It's a good memory. They hold hands on the way home.

Xxx

The first time Sorey sleeps, after the pact with Lailah, Mikleo holds his hand. He's not aware through most of it, tired and feverish, but he's absolutely sure of the fact that there's a gentle weight in his hand, between his fingers, cold against the heat of his skin. Mikleo has always been cool even without a fever, but this is a feeling Sorey remembers from the times he's fallen sick at home, and all the other times when he's well, when Mikleo is there, when they're climbing through ruined hallways, fingers gripping each other tight so they don't trip and stumble.

It's a feeling that doesn't go away for three straight days while Sorey sleeps like a rock, wandering through good memories in his dreams, all of them including Mikleo, most of them remembering the solid touch of his hand. When he wakes up, though, twitches his fingers, Mikleo's hand isn't there. Sorey's fingers close hard and fast around the air, and it's not a good feeling to wake up to, having been out for what feels like ages, waking up with nobody there when there's supposed to be. And there is supposed to be someone there, because he's felt it, the weight of Mikleo's hand.

Mikleo is always there, Sorey thinks, vague and still half-dizzy, before he sees a familiar outline at the far end of the room. Mikleo's always liked to look out the windows; neither of them have been very good at being cooped up inside.

“Mikleo.” Sorey's voice is dry but relieved, and he realizes how thirsty he is, wonders exactly how long he's been out. Water sounds like a small blessing, at this point.

Then Mikleo turns, and he looks about as relieved as Sorey feels before he's sweeping across the room, silvery and smooth, holding out a wet cloth that Sorey's pretty sure must be for him. Mikleo's always been the one to take care of him when he'd fallen sick, despite offers from the other seraphim, and despite Jiji insisting he rest. Sorey knows, because he's heard the stories, laughed while Mikleo's face turned red. He opens his mouth again to say thanks—

And is rewarded with the wet slap of a soaked rag against his face. Mikleo hadn't even rung it out before dropping it.

“Oops,” he says, not sounding the least bit sorry, but even as Sorey sputters the water out of his mouth, tries to wipe his face before it seeps down through his collar, he can see the faint smile at the corner of Mikleo's eyes, and he knows that he wasn't wrong about the hand holding. Especially when Mikleo's hand seeks out his own as they go to find Lailah. Sorey lets him act like he's exasperated, if it helps, because it's worth it to see the way Mikleo flushes and makes excuses when Lailah talks about how he's been in there for 72 hours, reading instead of exploring the town, or talking to Lailah, or anything. Anything that isn't planting himself by Sorey's bed, clutching their hands together even as Sorey slept.

“I had to catch up on my reading,” Mikleo says with an air of finality, for the third time, as Sorey grins at him. “It wasn't for you.”

But their hands are still connected, Mikleo's gripping his a little too tightly, and he doesn't say anything when Sorey squeezes back and says he's glad he did.

Xxx

“I'm not here to be a liability,” Mikleo says, and Sorey can feel his heart squeeze in his chest, because that isn't what he means to convey. Mikleo could never be a liability, not when he's so important, and always there, always a constant, always something Sorey has taken advantage of being next to him.

And that's the problem. Mikleo is important, and Sorey doesn't want to drag him into this if he doesn't have to. He knows Mikleo would follow him anywhere, and while it's comforting, Sorey knows this isn't something he should be selfish about. He shouldn't drag Mikleo into danger just because he wants to be together. Lailah will do fine; Mikleo can stay out of danger as long as he doesn't form a pact.

That's Sorey's thinking, anyway, up to the point where Mikleo's fingers are too-tight on his, gripping until Mikleo's pretty sure there's no longer any blood getting through to the tips. They are holding hands, sure, but this feels wrong, Mikleo's body sparking with frustration and anger and something Sorey recognizes as hurt, something that feels almost like a slap in the face when he realizes he's causing it.

When Mikleo forms the pact, when they armatize for the first time, every worry Sorey has had seems swept away in the rush of water that is Mikleo, like it's always been. Mikleo is there for him no matter what; they're there for each other, Mikleo's hand firmly in his, and this is no different. Sorey gets the same warmth and sense of belonging now, smooth voice somewhere in his head and ears and all around him, inside him, his own voice but not; it's almost like this is natural, how it's meant to be, and Sorey could kick himself for trying to force his own worries on his friend. 

Mikleo does that for him later, almost.

“I told you, it's my dream, too,” Mikleo says that night, when they're two people again, just barely. There's a strange emptiness in Sorey's chest that's never been there before, but Mikleo's fingers relieve that when they twine with his, sitting on the edge of the inn's bed that's a little too hard for a good night's sleep. Sorey stares at their hands, at the way Mikleo's grip is confident, like he's never doubted for a second that they belong doing this together. He starts as his hand is tugged, glancing up at Mikleo, who peers at him from under his heavy fringe. And smiles, the corner of his mouth tilting up in the way that always makes Sorey smile, too. This time is no exception, and he nudges Mikleo with his shoulder, tension washed away.

He could never do this without Mikleo. He's never been without Mikleo, always had a hand there when he needed it. He turns over Mikleo's true name in his head, liking the way it tastes on his tongue, dredged up from somewhere he's always known.

They've never quite been two people. Maybe armatization was meant for them.

Mikleo's hand doesn't leave his that night, beds close enough in the small room that it's not too much to stretch them out, fingers linked.

Xxx

The others see them, sometimes. They were bound to, of course; it's not like either of them tries to hide it, and things don't go unnoticed when you're with that many people for that amount of time. It's during the trip that Sorey learns it isn't natural to hold onto your friend the way the two of them do. Mikleo looks a little abashed, like he's suspected it, but Sorey is genuinely caught off-guard by the news.

To him, it doesn't make any sense. He likes Mikleo, he likes being close; holding hands seems like a natural solution. It's like an unspoken reminder that Mikleo is always there with him.

Lailah and Alisha are kind enough not to mention it—Lailah after the first time, at least, when she points out how close they are—but Rose is another story.

“Do you guys always do that?” she asks one night, shortly after they begin to travel together, when the two of them are heading to bed, Mikleo's step slightly faster than Sorey's as he drags behind. “The hand thing. You realize you're doing that, right?”

Honestly, Sorey hadn't noticed. He rarely does these days, when their hands are lax like this, comfortable and familiar in each other's grips. Mikleo's hands are soft, smooth, but still a little rough around the edges from when they spar, or where they grip the rough edges of rocks and ruins and press into switches embedded into stone walls. Everything about it is as familiar to Sorey as his own hand, like an extension of himself, almost. It's just natural.

He doesn't like the way he can see Mikleo's shoulders tense a little, the way he can feel it where their hands are connected. Still, though, Mikleo doesn't let go; if anything, his grip becomes a little tighter, like he's worried Sorey will. Hand-holding is also useful for this, small communications; Sorey squeezes back, 'I'm not letting go', and feels Mikleo's hand relax against his palm. 

But human culture is weird. This is something people do when they 'like' each other, as Rose says it, voice hushed and conspiratorial like it's some big secret. 

“I like Mikleo,” Sorey says when he first learns the reason he's met with weird looks from the rest of the group, and Edna's strange, condescending grins, like she knows something they don't, mostly directed at Mikleo. He does a good job pretending not to notice most of the time, Sorey thinks.

It's true, though. Sorey likes Mikleo. He knows all about human courting rituals, of course. It's no big secret. He just hadn't known things are as nuanced as this, that holding hands can't mean anything else, like maybe just wanting to be close to someone, to know they're there at your side, or right behind you, or tugging you forward when you don't feel like you want to go anymore. Forever, kind of. And it's no big deal, really, since nobody else can see Mikleo, but...Sorey knows even if they could, he wouldn't care.

Mikleo is important, Sorey likes holding his hand, and that's that.

The day after Rose tells them, Mikleo's hands are strangely skittish, shying away from Sorey's at every turn, pretending to be busy with other things. Rose has forgotten entirely, busy with breakfast and preparations and trying to get Dezel to crack a smile, which has consumed most of her morning. Sorey watches Mikleo more closely than he usually does instead of just the peripheral, the way he looks more tense, the way his hand sometimes seems to close on nothing and he starts, like he's grabbing for something he hasn't realized isn't there. Sorey lets out an exasperated sigh, something that's usually Mikleo's job, but this time he isn't the one being ridiculous.

He grabs Mikleos hand, watches his arm tense, and then slowly relax into the grip, the way that comes naturally to them.

“I don't care.” Sorey's voice is nonchalant, firm. Mikleo throws a look over his shoulder, something between surprised and secretly pleased.

Edna still says things, sometimes—cracks about getting a room, which Sorey knows by now the meaning of—but neither of them really react anymore. Nobody else says anything.

Mikleo doesn't try to avoid holding his hand again, and Sorey feels like he's won something.

Xxx

The death of a comrade hits all of them hard, and Mikleo's hand is especially welcomed that night, when everything is darker than usual, when Sorey crawls into bed long after everyone else. A bed already occupied by another warm body that doesn't bother pretending to be asleep.

The bed shifts as Mikleo moves over to make room, lifting the blanket up with one hand while Sorey's seeks out the other one without asking. He pulls the blanket over both their heads like they used to do when they were little and wanted to pretend it was only the two of them in some great, unexplored wilderness.

Right now, the purpose is just the opposite. Sorey doesn't want to feel alone.

Dezel's death is a stark reminded of what's at stake, of what they're truly facing. Sometimes it's easy to forget, when they're still clambering over ruins, Mikleo's eyes bright and Sorey's chest full of the excitement of seeing new things, places, people, sights he's only ever read about. He'd never expected this journey to be easy, and he's not going to give up, but there's a new weight pressing down on all of them.

“He was happy,” Mikleo says eventually, after a period of heavy silence between them, nothing but the gentle breathing beneath the scratchy sheets. Neither of them can sleep. “It was for the person who was important to him.”

But that's what scares Sorey. He wonders if Mikleo would do the same for him—and then wishes he hadn't, because he's sure he knows the answer. He'd do the same for Mikleo. He understands how Dezel felt, how he'd decided without hesitation to do what he'd done for Rose. Sorey's fingers tighten, actions betraying the words he tries to keep pressed down in his chest. This is why he hadn't wanted Mikleo to form a pact, but he can't say so now. He hears the word 'liability' ring in his head in Mikleo's hurt tone, and swallows that, too.

It's as if Mikleo can tell what he's thinking just from where their hands are connected, because he's shifting closer, enough that Sorey thinks if he squints he can see the bright flash of Mikleo's eyes even in the darkness.

“I'm still here,” says Mikleo, and Sorey wonders how he can bother being reassuring at a time like this.

His hand gives Sorey's a squeeze, fingers warm, but still slightly cooler than his own. Sorey doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. He can feel Mikleo's fingers relax eventually as he falls asleep, and something about that is comforting, Mikleo next to him, close enough to touch.

Mikleo is the most important person in the world to him, and Sorey thinks he understands how Dezel must have felt.

Sorey seeks out Mikleo's hand more than usual the following week, like he needs a reminder that he's still there. Not even Edna mentions it.

Xxx

Sorey would be lying if he said he wasn't scared, but this is how he's always been; when he reaches a decision, he sticks with it. There's no second guessing, no 'what if's. He's going to purify Maotelus, no matter what. Sorey knows the consequences, the probability of everything working out well, but he's always believed in himself enough to not consider the possibilities of failing. And Mikleo's always believed in him, too.

Maybe that's why Mikleo is the only one he tells, when it's dark and quiet and only the stars are around to listen to them.

They're pretty, silver spilling out over the blue deep enough that it's nearly black, and Sorey suddenly feels very small looking at them, one person in the middle of all this vastness, and he wonders if he can do it by himself, if he—

His thoughts are interrupted by warmth pressing against his hand, sliding between his fingers, settling in where it feels natural and comforting and safe. Like home. Mikleo feels like home; Mikleo is home, or close enough to it. The stars have gone out, suddenly, replaced by pitch black dark, and Sorey's startled for a moment until he realizes he's closed his eyes. He opens them again to see Mikleo looking at him, expression, for once, foreign and unreadable. Sorey isn't sure he likes that.

Mikleo knows better than to protest or try and stop him, but Sorey isn't expecting the way Mikleo looks back out over the town, the solemn quiet to his figure as he turns over Sorey's words in his head. This isn't asking for permission, it's stating the plan, clear and simple. Sorey isn't one to be budged when he makes a decision.

“I'll wait,” he says, finally, voice drifting over the quiet in front of them. “As long as it takes.”

For a moment, it feels like time is standing still, like Sorey's heart doesn't want to beat in his chest because he's afraid of breaking the feeling washing over him at the sound of Mikleo's words. It's a long time to wait, he knows—years, decades, centuries maybe—and Sorey doesn't expect Mikleo to wait that long. He has things to do, dreams of his own to accomplish, places to see for the both of them when Sorey can't, and—

Sorey doesn't realize he's been speaking out loud, words overflowing in a rushed babble, until Mikleo tugs on his hand, grip tightening.

“I told you before. It's both of our dream.”

They've been holding hands for years and years, so long it is second nature, that Sorey sometimes doesn't even notice when they reach out for each other; sometime it takes Edna's disgusted noises for him to realize he's gripping Mikleo's hand as he pores over a map or a text, thumb tracing absent patterns over the skin. They've done a lot of things together, and Sorey wants to do so much more.

It's the first time they kiss.

Mikleo's breath is warm and sudden where his mouth suddenly presses to Sorey's, but even this isn't foreign; something about it feels right, like it's just a step in the path they've always been going down together, and when they pull back it isn't awkward. Well, it's a little awkward, but a welcome sort of awkward, the kind that breaks the tension between them, the taught line of Sorey's shoulders as he considers his decision. He laughs, spontaneous and breathless, sort of like the kiss, and Mikleo uses his other hand to jab Sorey a little too hard in the arm. He's stronger than he looks.

He still doesn't let go of Sorey's hand, and Sorey doesn't need to say thank you. Mikleo already knows.

Xxx

Everything happens so fast when they finally reach Heldalf. Sorey doesn't know if he'd have been able to keep going without the ones at his back, at his sides, pressing him on. The pain and anger of losing Jiji is replaced with stalwart determination, the drive to end this so it never happens to anyone else, and Mikleo is right there with him, at the end, just like he'd said. It's their dream, Sorey reminds himself, he can't give up; they've come this far, sacrificed so much, they have to finish it. If his own determination is not enough, Sorey can feel that of his companions—it spurs him on, drives his blade, keeps his hand steady when he shoots the bullets at Heldalf.

And maybe it's selfish, and awful, and unfitting of a Shepherd, but as Sorey fires, he saves Mikleo for last.

This is it, he thinks to himself, the last time they'll stand here together; the last time he'll hear Mikleo's voice.

He wishes he could feel Mikleo's hand one more time.

There's something warm against his palm, suddenly, sliding into the spaces between his fingers, and Sorey thinks he's imagining it at first. But he tightens his fingers, and the feeling of Mikleo's hand is real, and solid, and better than anything Sorey thinks he's felt in his life.

He doesn't realize his hand has been shaking until Mikleo squeezes it, holds it steady.

“Last shot,” he says, eyes firm and sharp, like the determination Sorey carries with him taken solid form. He likes that idea; something about it feels comforting, almost. The feeling seeps into Sorey's chest and replaces everything he's battling with something warm and familiar and strong. “We've been practicing for this.”

Mikleo's bow has made him a pretty decent shot. Sorey tries to crack a smile, but all he manages is a nod.

He can feel the presence all around him, in him, when they armatize for the last time, Mikleo's true name on his tongue, settling in his head and in his chest and everywhere, pressing his fingers against the trigger. Sorey doesn't pull it on his own; he can feel Mikleo's hand right alongside his until the bullet leaves the chamber, and then it's gone.

This had been their dream, he reminds himself.

One of the last things Sorey remembers before Maotelus is a flash of color, a familiar blue swimming before his eyes, filling his chest with something cool and calm and refreshing, and he thinks if Mikleo's okay, then he can rest easy.

Xxx

Sorey doesn't remember much when he sleeps.

He doesn't know how long it is; he thinks he dreams, maybe, of home, of Jiji and everyone else, of Rose and Alisha, Edna and Zaveid and Lailah.

And Mikleo. Sorey's always dreamt of Mikleo, always thought of Mikleo. Even through this, it's no exception. Jiji has always said they're linked, something Sorey has felt with all his heart to be true, ever since he can remember.

Whether it's a dream or not, Sorey feels the weight of someone else's hand in his, even as he sleeps. It's soft and warm, a finger thumbing at the edge of his knuckle, tracing lines it knows well, more familiar than the maps he and Mikleo have pored over however long ago it's been. Maybe years, maybe decades, maybe centuries. Sorey sleeps with the feeling of someone gripping tightly onto him. Such a long sleep should be lonely, but the feeling never seeps its way into Sorey's dreams; even when dark creeps at the edges of Maotelus' purification, the warmth moves through his body, pushes it away with something he thinks he remembers.

It's impossible to know how much time passes, but when Sorey wakes up, it's with Mikleo's name in his mouth and the absolute feeling of someone next to him, a hand in his.

There's nobody there.

He looks down at his hands to be sure. They feel foreign to him after not having moved them for so long; Sorey wiggles his fingers, cracks his wrists, checks to see if the rest of him moves. His shoulders are stiff and his throat is dry, but everything else seems to be okay.

The relief of being awake—being alive—after so long is overpowered by the feeling of being alone, the need to know if Mikleo is okay, where he is, what he's doing, if he's been exploring the world like he'd promised. Sorey hopes so; there's so much they hadn't seen, so much the both of them had dreamed of visiting. He pictures Mikleo seeing new things, keeping journals, publishing a book like he'd said he wanted to. Maybe he's famous now. Maybe there are people other than Sorey who can see seraphim. Maybe he's found someone to share things with, to fill in the gaps between his fingers that Sorey hasn't been able to fill for a long time.

Everything about Mikleo seems to come rushing in at once—the way he smells, like old books and soap, the color of his eyes, how soft his hair feels against the fingers Sorey once again has control over. He remembers the lilt of Mikleo's voice, the way it's sharp when it's angry, the way it's slightly less sharp when he's embarrassed and pretending not to be. The sound of his laugh when Sorey's fingers creep too far down his sides, the way he folds his clothes, the expression he makes when he finds something good. Every little thing, Sorey remembers with clarity. They're good memories, but something about them is overwhelming, like everything is catching up all at once; and yet, at the same time, it's not fast enough. Sorey needs to remember everything about Mikleo right this second, needs to know where he is, needs to see him. He has never once doubted Mikleo's words, that he'll wait, but that doesn't mean Sorey knows how to find him.

He sits there for what feels like hours but might be minutes. The flow of time is something Sorey can't seem to wrap his mind around. The one thing he can is Mikleo, the one thing he keeps returning to, the one thing he thinks of in favor of paying attention to his surroundings, trying to figure out where he is, how long it's been, where he should go.

Sorey doesn't know what to do with himself, now that he doesn't have the thing that's always been there, the one constant from as far back as he can remember. Mikleo's hand is not there for him to reach out to, to help him up. Everything feels foreign and sluggish and weird, like he's woken from a long slumber—and it's exactly that, he reminds himself, groggy mind trying to catch up the years he's slept away.

Stretching his legs seems like a good place to start.

The light is near-blinding, but Sorey turns his face up anyway, closes his eyes, relishes the feeling of warmth creeping over skin that's been cold for far too long. He should be happy; beyond happy, really, but there's the tugging feeling in his chest that something is missing, that he needs to be somewhere. Sorey knows exactly what it is, but he doesn't know what to do about it. Mikleo had said he'd wait, and Sorey trusts him. He'll be there. It might take a while for them to find each other, but they will.

With that mindset he wanders, picking his way through wherever it is he's been resting—Sorey's not sure, but his attempts to find the shortest way out are slowly overcome by the desire to explore his surroundings. He shouldn't be surprised that the first thing he does after sleeping for ages is get caught up in the ruins around him. They might be old, or they might be new, depending on how long he's been sleeping, and something about that is absolutely fascinating, the fact that the things Sorey's seen may be ruins in their own right. It should be more terrifying than exciting, but Sorey's sense of wonder has been dormant too long.

Mikleo would laugh at him, he thinks, and there's that twinge in his chest. He wants to see Mikleo. He's wanted to see Mikleo since they parted.

There's movement in front of him, suddenly, something silvery and fluid and the relief that floods his chest is a little over-pronounced—then again, he hasn't seen anyone for who knows how long, has just awoken in a place he doesn't know, in a time he's not sure of. Anyone would be relieved. Sorey presses down the feeling in his chest that this is familiar, but listens to the one telling him to follow.

He's always had a nose for danger, Jiji used to say. The memory is still raw. Time hasn't caught up with him enough for the wounds to heal yet. It's a good thing, though, because the first person he's seen since he'd slept is suddenly crashing through the floor in a tumble of dust and rubble and noise, the sound of rocks cracking and breaking and clattering together. It's a sound Sorey knows all too well, bouncing off the walls, too loud in the chamber. He's flooded with a sudden, vivid memory of Mikleo nearly falling through the floor, and it's almost painful the way it rushes through his chest, like the memories themselves are waking up, just as confused and out of sorts as he is.

Sorey doesn't want to think about that now. He can remember when he has time, when his arm isn't painfully trying to retain its grip on someone in danger of falling to their death, and Sorey has never been able to turn away from someone in need. It seems like sleeping hasn't lessened that any.

The pull of the hand is familiar.

He's even more sure of that when there's another hand, grip firm and warm and real, not a dream, solid and tight and bordering painful, and he doesn't think the cling is one of desperation. No, he knows who it is immediately after catching him, when their palms touch, when Mikleo's slim fingers press around his own, even before Mikleo looks back at him, both corners of his mouth turning up.

And when Sorey pulls him up, clear of the danger of falling and cutting their hello short, he's only half-startled by the weight of Mikleo pressed full-body against him, pushing Sorey's back into the rough of the stone beneath them. It feels like waking up, finally, for good, when Mikleo's hands find his, fast and fumbling, fingers seeking the spaces between Sorey's to fit where they haven't for far too long.

If Sorey misses this, only having been awake for a short period of time, he wonders how it's been for Mikleo.

"Mikleo," Sorey says, voice rough from disuse, but the name as familiar on his tongue as ever.

"Sorey," Mikleo says back, and his own voice sounds a little breathless, probably a combination of falling and the result of the starstruck look plastered across a face Sorey hasn't seen for far too long. There's no witty quip, nothing about how long it had taken him, and somehow that makes Sorey's heart thud faster in his chest.

Holding Mikleo's hands is as familiar as breathing, better than breahting, even, and Sorey remembers his words—'I'll wait for you'–as everything escapes his lungs in a hoarse, cracking laugh, and there's Mikleo's too, lacing between Sorey's as tightly as their fingers press together. Even if everything has changed, if Mikleo's there, feeling like nostalgia and home, Sorey is okay.


End file.
